


Written in the Stars

by marvelthat



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Astronomy, Beginning childhood moment, Constellations, F/M, Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine, Philosophy, Shakespeare Quotations, Stars, Tudor AU, Tudor Era, War, Woman in Disguise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6064176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelthat/pseuds/marvelthat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of friendship, Lady Simmons and Sir Fitz's relationship may have grown into something more. But when Fitz gets drafted of to a terrible war and captured by the enemy, Simmons has to risk it all to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine.  
> Prompt: Tudor Nobility  
> After lots of research, I hope @fitz-and-jemma enjoys my take on the Tudor Era.

“Come on, Fitz!”

 

Jemma gestures to him, while standing near the open door. Fitz hurries along behind her, almost tripping on his little feet. The ten-year-old pauses as he gets to threshold and quickly checks if anyone is watching them from behind.

 

“Are you positive we should be doing this?” he squeaks. “If Miss May catches us-”

 

“Miss May shan't catch us. Besides, can they really pin the blame on us? These affairs are so dull.” Jemma strides through the door, leaving Fitz behind. He cautiously walks in and lingers by the doorway for a moment before Jemma pulls him down behind a statue. He lets out a shout of protest until she clamps his mouth with her hand. She settles her flouncy, yellow skirts and sits down properly.

 

“Be quiet.” she whispers. They turn their attention to the grand table in front of them, and while they are hidden sight, they can see the entire room. The dining area is magnificent in itself, with an enormous window as the backdrop. Blood red curtains cascade from the top and are tied with golden rope. It is adorned with a countless number of exquisite paintings of the Simmons’ family noble line. Stern-faced portraits that give Jemma chills. There are many other statues scattered about the large room, similar to the one they are hiding behind. The table itself is decorated with gold-plated candles and a lace runner. It stands in great stature, despite its antiquity. The guests, the host and the hostess all sit around the table, enjoying the evening. Jemma and Fitz can hear their parents conversing from their hiding place. The other guests ignore the rigorous argument.

 

“Constance, you can’t be serious!” Fitz’s mother, Denise, exclaims.

 

“I am, darling. Arranged marriage could be profitable for both families involved. Tell her Bennett.”

Constance Simmons waves away a servant before gesturing to her husband.

 

Bennett chokes on the drink he swallowed previous to the argument and coughs uncontrollably, while his wife gawks at him, mortified and mildly flushed. The other attendees glance over but return to their own conversations. Constance continues to voice her idea as her husband excuses himself from the dinner table.

 

Jemma turns back to Fitz who is also watching intently. She tugs the hem of his formal jacket and he faces her.

 

“Arranged marriage! Fitz, they’re talking about us! One of us could be married to some stranger.”

 

Fitz nods wordlessly and continues to listen.

 

“A betrothal could be lucrative. Since we both are of high status, what with Martin being an esteemed knight and Bennett’s noble status stretching back far into history, with our children combined, we can become one of the most wealthy families in Perthshire!” she rests her chin on her hands informally. “Of course, that is only if Leopold adopts the family profession.”

 

A mustachioed man, Martin Fitz, sits forward in his chair, “Most definitely, he’s already a page, four years away from becoming a squire. He’s top in all of his studies-”

 

“Yes, I am sure he is but that’s not the issue. Leo is a bit scrawny, don't you think? And let us not forget that drowning accident.” Constance pushes.

 

Denise sits slightly taller in her chair, so as to imply dominance. She remembers the incident well. Poor Leo was no more than five and the ordeal left him with a shaky hand. Now, Denise isn't one to get testy. She is a well mannered woman who doesn't try to start conflict. There are, however, a few lines people have crossed before and insulting her son is one of them. “He shall fill out eventually, he is only ten. And in reference to his accident, what you said was uncalled for and I wish it never to happen again. Why should you go about, scrutinizing children who haven’t even reached adolescence? Is he _your_ son?”

 

Constance’s face shows a flash of regret before she quickly recovers and corrects her mistake “Oh, Denise, darling, do not be so somber. You know I meant well.”

 

Denise smirks at her friend’s apology and with a toss of her brown hair, continues to speak. “So is the betrothal set?”

 

“Yes, of course! If only Bennett could get in here to solidify it.” Mrs. Simmons leans over in her chair to look behind her, toward the red door. “Bennett!” she calls.

 

“Coming!” Mr. Simmons shouts in return. He comes along the hallway, walking briskly to join the table once more. “Yes, dear?”

 

“We have come to an agreement on the marriage! Jemma and Leopold are to be married at the age of…” her voice fades as she looks toward the Fitz family for guidance.

 

“Twenty-one.” Mrs. Fitz says promptly.

 

“Denise, why so old?”

 

“That shall give Fitz ample time to master Knighthood. And form his build.”

 

Constance laughs nervously and turns to her husband, smiling. Bennett smiles back with no sincerity. “Seems fitting.”

 

Mrs. Simmons claps her hands together and lets out a joyful sound, “Wonderful! This calls for a celebration!” She motions for a servant to come forth. “Please bring out some wine from the cellar.”

 

“Which kind, m’am?”

 

“Any will do.” She beckons the servant closer and whispers. “Nothing of high value, though.”

 

The servant nods and heads toward the kitchen.

 

Meanwhile, behind the statue near the humblest exit, giggling can be heard. Jemma and Fitz are almost rolling from laughter. However, still aware where they are, the children keep it low.

 

“Us? Married! Fitz, it’s such a silly thought. I don’t ever want to get married. I want to become a famed physician when I grow up.” Jemma says. And what she says, she means full in truth. Jemma had been fascinated with living creatures and the way their bodies functioned for most of the ten years of her life. If she can learn it, she can do it. Her wonderment comes from her father, who had wanted to be an artist but had been forced into the aristocratic life instead. He wants his children to be free to pursue their dreams and had then encouraged Jemma’s passion, despite the status quo of women standards.

 

“Exactly! I’ve never really thought about marriage and it would feel odd, you’re my best friend.” Fitz agrees.

 

Jemma nods, “I can’t believe we heard all of this, and no one else caught us!”

 

“I believe I have.”

 

They both spin around to see Melinda May, Jemma's tutor, standing cross-armed a few feet away from their hiding place. “And may I inquire what you two are doing?”

 

“Well, you see, Fitz and I-” Jemma starts but is quickly cut off by May’s reprimand.

 

“Ms. Simmons, last names are not the proper way to address your colleague. Unless using a title, you are to call your playmates by their _first_ name.”

 

“But he doesn’t like to be called Leo!”

 

May raises a hand to quell the girl, “No excuses.”

 

Jemma folds her hands behind her back and studies her petite, blue slippers.

 

“Yes Miss May.”

 

May spins on her heel and walks promptly down the grandiose hall as Jemma and Fitz trail reluctantly behind her. May’s flat slippers make no sound on the marble flooring and her formal trousers are silent compared to the swishing of a gaudy skirt.

Melinda May is the only woman in the region, perhaps even the kingdom, who wore trousers. In fact, she is the only woman to do many things, like keep her maiden name after marriage. She doesn’t believe in the mistreat and degradation of women that is taken as normal. May is, however, very secretive about her past. If fact, many rumors existed of it. Some say she is an ex-military General. Other are convinced that she is previously a sailor. Her husband, Captain Phillip Coulson, claims they had met in the battlefield and she saved his life. No one knows if he is sharing the truth or if his stories are a simple jest. Although she is scorned by many, May was welcomed as a teacher by the Simmons household. She has a significant influence on those that she taught, boy and girl, that can not be matched by any other tutor.

 

“If you parents found out you are directly disobeying them, the consequences could be high. You are lucky I don't punish you myself.” May says sternly as she holds open the door into the nursery.

 

“Sorry, Miss May.”  They say in unison.

 

“It won’t happen again.” Fitz adds and they are both pushed into the room.

 

The other children hardly acknowledge their presence, except for a small group on the right of the room. They are sitting in the desks provided for guest students and look up immediately the time Jemma and Fitz return. The youngest of the group, Daisy, waves excitedly to the two and beckons them to come forth, her green skirts bouncing.

 

“Did you both get caught?” she asks, her eyes wide with curiosity.

 

“Yes.” Jemma answers sheepishly. She had been hoping they might have gotten away with it, just for the sense of accomplishment.

 

“Just as I said they would, Bobbi.” Lancelot or ‘Lance’ for short, Jemma’s older brother, pipes. Rather than sitting in a desk, he chose to lean against the leg of a desk while sitting on the floor. “For once in your perfect life, you were wrong.” he directs this toward a blonde beauty, Barbara Morse who is sitting in the desk he is leaning on. She scoffs before kicking him in the back.

 

“My life is far from perfect, Lance. Besides, everyone guesses incorrectly from time to time.” Barbara defends. She folds her hands across the desk and gives him a haughty glare. He winks in return.

 

“But, we were able to overhear Fitz’s and my parents talking.” Jemma adds.

 

“You were still caught.” Lance shoots back.

 

“Come on, give them some credit. “ Antoine Triplett says smoothly. He checks the gigantic grandfather clock and turns back to Lance. “It took them at least 30 minutes.”

 

“Did you hear anything of interest?” Bobbi asks, leaning forward and ignoring the boys’ banter.

 

Jemma leans toward Fitz. “Are we to tell them?” she whispers to him.

 

“No need, it will be announced eventually.” Fitz replies. “Besides, who knows how they may react.”

 

Jemma and Fitz look at each other knowingly before addressing the others.

 

“Nothing whatever.” Fitz says.

 

Daisy cocks her head while Lance and Bobbi suppress laughter. Antoine rolls his eyes and starts a conversation with Daisy.

 

“Of course you didn’t.” Bobbi says. She nudges Lance and he continues to laugh.

 

Jemma and Fitz are oblivious to all of this. To them, their friends think nothing is wrong and they can post-pone the embarrassment. No one knows yet. It is their secret. It is still strange to them, the thought of marriage. Later on in their fragile lives they may learn the worth of love and how nothing is set in stone, for the mind of a ten-year-old is most certainly naive.

 

**********10 years later**********

 

Fitz walks up to the snow-covered, marble headstone that marked the grave of Sir Martin Fitz, a loving husband, a father, and dedicated knight. 1547-1589. 42 years. Today would have been his 45th birthday.

 

He drops the assorted flowers he is carrying onto the grave and straightens the neckline of his uncomfortable fur cloak. However warm it keeps him, the constant itchiness of it isn’t worth it. Fitz clears his throat and clasps his cold hands together nervously.

 

“I did it, father. I was knighted. A week ago, actually. Just as you would have wanted.” Fitz states. A ray of sunlight peaks through the branches of the birch tree next to the grave and he shields his eyes from the appreciated, warm rays.

 

There had always been a sense of awkwardness between the two. Sir Martin seemed to only spend time with his son as a child when it concerned his training as a knight and never supported his analytical talent as an inventor. Before his death, there had been unspoken words, disagreements, and shouting. A lot of shouting. Fitz never really thought about what would happen if he lost his father. But it happened and he was left unprepared.

 

“Your death,” Fitz falters slightly but regains his composer. “Was so sudden. When mum and I heard you had died in action, it never truly dawned on me that I had lost you until much later. I’m sorry that it took so long to miss you but, what can I say? We had a horrific relationship.”

 

Fitz looks directly at the headstone, the very thing his eyes had been avoiding the entire time. He shifts on his feet to keep the blood flowing to them before they froze.

 

“I’m thrilled to say, although you may not be as joyous to hear, that I’m continuing my studies in engineering. Remember when I tried to become and apprentice to a blacksmith. You were fuming. I actually considered taking up apprenticeship, not to a blacksmith of course, but maybe a palace engineer. That didn’t exactly work out the way I planned. So, as long as it took me, I ultimately did what you wanted. And I hope to make you proud.” He touches the stone justly and swiftly strides away through the snow. It is over with. His yearly visit to his father’s grave.

 

Every year he dreads it, even though his father is dead, Fitz still feels the urge to impress him with any accomplishment. And every year, he has had nothing to show for. Up until now. He has made his father proud.     

 

**_You cannot teach a man anything;_ **

**_you can only help him find it within himself._ **

**_~ Galileo Galilei_ **

 

************************

 

Jemma sits on the forest green wool armchair in the front parlor, adjacent to the expansive fixed windows. She slowly sips the warm tea in her hands as she reads silently. The snow falls outside and Jemma is once again grateful that she had decided against going out. She pulls her blanket around her shoulders and proceeds in reading her novel in her lap when she hears a knock on the door.

 

Jemma gets up reluctantly, not wanting to leave the coziness of her chair, but knows whoever is outside shouldn’t be in the cold for too long. She opens the door to see an almost completely frozen Leo Fitz. His cloak is covered in snow and the wind blows stronger.

 

“M-may I c-come in?” His teeth chatter together when Jemma nods vigorously, her light blue dress being blown by the cold gust. She ushers him quickly and shuts the door before any more of the freezing air can come in.

 

“Sir Fitz! What on earth are you doing out in this monstrous snow?” Jemma exclaims, shivering slightly.

 

Fitz shakes the snow off his cloak and hair before answering the question. “I was nearby when the storm came. I hope you don’t mind if I wait for it to pass.”

 

Jemma shakes her head and shows him to a seat, “Of course you may. You’re here almost everyday, anyway.”

 

Fitz hangs his cloak on the top of the chair and sits down.  “And why use such formalities, _Lady Simmons_? It’s only me.”

 

She rolls her eyes before returning to her chair and sipping her now chilled tea. “I’m sure you’re most certainly eager to begin life as a knight. Especially one of your background.”  

 

It is now his turn to roll his eyes. Fitz settles deeper into the chair and nervously scratches the back of his neck. “You know that’s not not true. I never wanted…” He gestures to the majority of the lavish room. “...all of this. I just wanted to be happy.” He sighs heartily and looks up at Jemma, whose beauty is illuminated by the reflective white snow opposite her. He didn't really known when, but she had become his happiness. One of the only escapes from the shallow world around them, other than tinkering.

 

“I understand. My parents are so bent on making me a proper lady who does what she’s told. They won’t even allow me to continue my studies as a physician. Fortunately for the both of us, our betrothal is eradicated. My parents shall have quite a time finding someone to marry me off to. So I’ll be avoiding that ill-fated tragedy named marrige.” Jemma smiles, but something seems off, as if the words she said are no longer true. Fitz winces slightly but tries to keep a light spirit. “But, at the very least, in spite of this nonsense, nothing has changed between us. You’re my one constant.”

 

At that, Fitz beams at her and lets his gaze linger softly as he fantasizes what it would have been like if they were still betrothed. If they were destined to be together. He sighs at his foolishness and looks away. Jemma doesn’t return his feelings. She makes it clear that she sees him as a friend and nothing more. A close friend, yes, but a friend alone.

 

“Did you hear of Barbara and Lance’s wedding? I’m still shocked he went through with it. Lance was completely renounced from the Simmons family, even changed his surname, to Hunter, I think.” Jemma derails his train of thought with her outburst and Fitz jumps in his seat. He quickly recovers, however, and although his breaths are forced, continues the conversation.

 

“No, I did not. I had heard that Barbara had disguised herself as a man to join the British Navy, that’s why her family disowned her. Amazing that we know them. They make for a rather exciting couple.” he manages to get out after the sudden shock, readjusting his position in the chair.

 

“Indeed.” Jemma agrees. “But do you know of our new neighbor? It seems Daisy has, let us say, taken interest in him.

 

Fitz raises an eyebrow and leans back in his chair.

 

“I’m sure that his name is Lincoln Campbell, he’s a physician.” Jemma continues, slightly envious that he had gotten the profession she has only dreamed of.

 

“I think her foster parents should thrilled to hear that. As she hasn’t ’taken interest’, as you put it, in anyone since Antoine.” Fitz says.

 

Jemma smiles sadly. “Yes, no one has really forgotten him, though. I just don’t want you to die the same way he and your father did. War is a terrible thing, Fitz.”

 

A thought came into Fitz’s head. “I almost forgot!” He sits up in his chair abruptly and smacked his forehead. “I was assigned to the front lines and I’ll be leaving within a fortnight.” He shrinks into his chair as Jemma gives him a relentless, withering gaze.

 

“Leopold Fitz!” she hollers. He shudders at the use of his first name. “You are not going to the front lines! You’ll be killed and that’s not happening.” She stands up from her seat, the book in her lap falling to the floor.  

 

“There’s nothing I can do about it, Jemma.” he states. “Do you really think that I want to go? I’ve tried all my life to evade this fate, but there are expectations.” He crosses the floor to where she stood, still steaming, and takes her hand into his. She looks up at him with eyes of steel.

 

“I-I’m _not_ losing you.” She trembles from anger and fear.

 

“You won’t. Neither of us would let that happen.”

 

Jemma brings him closer into a hug and closes her eyes. She takes in his scent of light machine oil and metal. From all of his work in engineering, it had a lasting effect. She sighs softly as she listens to his soft heartbeat. He is here, with her. Where she can protect him.

 

Meanwhile Fitz is also soaking in her touch. He breathes deeply and catches a whiff of ink and old books. Jemma’s smell. He had come to know her almost as well as he knew himself. And he never wanted to let go.

 

**_Love is a serious mental disease._ **

**_~ Plato_ **

 

************************

 

“Where are we going, Fitz?” Jemma asks as he leads her along, her eyes closed so as to extend the surprise.  She shivers violently, the winter chill seeping through her thick coat. Her face is frozen and her hands are practically pieces of ice. She tries to distract herself from the freezing weather and focuses on figuring out where he is taking her. Jemma can feel long stalks of surprisingly unfrozen wheat brush against the skirt of her dress and concludes they are in a field. Where specifically, she can’t tell and is anxious to find out.

 

Fitz holds her hand gently as he walks in front of her. “Almost there.” he responds.

 

They walk a bit longer before Fitz checks his pocket watch, the gold hands ticking steadily.

 

He peers up at the black curtain of illuminating stars and waits a few moments until he sees a few lights cross the sky and disappear. Fitz smiles and addresses Jemma.

 

“You may open your eyes.” he whispers dramatically, his breath warming her ear.

 

She mentally rolls her eyes but yields to his request, her curiosity winning her over. It takes her a moment to adjust to the darkness of the late night. She feels nettles pull at her skirts and long stalks of wheat brush her legs through her stockings. The smell of freshly baked bread fills her nostrils.

 

“Fitz! Are we in Lord Garrett’s wheat fields? He shall become enraged, should he find us.” she sets forth, almost terrified of what would happen if he came. For John Garrett shot at passerbyers, and often threatened other noble families. Everyone soon grew to walk on the opposite side of the road when passing by his fields and his house, just to avoid any ‘bad luck’ he may carry.

 

“He shall not find us, Lord Garrett rarely comes to his wheat fields at night. Even if he does, what more can he possibly do other than ululate his complaints.” Fitz assures, ignoring his better sense to run from the cursed place. “Now, in spite of your worries, do look up.”

 

Jemma complies and is at once rewarded by her choice, the skies are blanketed in glittering splendor. Billions of stars twinkle at her and her legs almost give out entirely. Her eyes quickly cross the heavens, trying to comprehend the magnificence. Jemma looks away and is finally able to breath once more. She stares at her light yellow gown, the intricate green stitched leaves winding along the top of it. Breathing in slowly, she is able to face the taste of firmament above her. That’s when she sees the first two lights streak across the blackness, standing out from the tinier stars. Then three, and soon six pass by. She sits down, dumbfounded, her brain trying to process the occurrence, until it finally clicks.

 

“The flying stars!” Jemma shouts, overflowing with excitement. She turns to Fitz who has sat down as well.

 

He chuckles in amusement, glancing up to catch a few more glide by. “I thought we had agreed to call them falling stars.”

 

She shoots him a look before focusing her attention on the sky once more. “Their true names are exhalations. I had completely forgotten that we had been charting the star patterns. You should have reminded me that they would be occurring tonight.” she says, breathless.

 

“The element of surprise can add to the excitement. I’m sure you weren’t expecting this.” Fitz waves a hand upwards. Jemma doesn’t respond, too concentrated on determining the name of each constellation. He takes her in, watching her wonderment and enthusiasm with a warmth rising into his heart. The stars fill her eyes with a thousand lights and Fitz never wants to look away.

 

Jemma lies down and Fitz mirrors that action, bringing himself closer to her in the process. She reaches for his hand and he meets her halfway. Her smile slowly fades as she remembers why he must have brought her out here.

 

“You brought me here to say good-bye.” she says more to herself than to him, her voice wavering at the end. She feels a lump rise up her throat and tears threatening to reveal themselves.

 

Fitz lets out a shaky sigh and can also feel the urge to cry. “Not good-bye, per say, more of a last special moment. I just want one recent memory of something...wonderful.” he breaths.

 

Jemma nods her head, partially to shake away tears and partially to agree. They try to resume the light atmosphere but it had already been broken by the haunting reminder of the fate to come tomorrow.

 

“Mercury.” Fitz points out a pale, yellow light brighter and larger than the others.

 

Jemma smiles and searches the stars, her eyes soon landing on the constellation Orion, the hunter. On the lower left of this constellation, the brightest star they have ever recorded is visible, Sirius. “It seems even brighter than usual.” she says, squinting at the star.

 

“Pardon?” he asks, looking upward toward it as well.

 

“Sirius, it’s beautiful tonight.” she elaborates.

 

He nods and they share a moment of sweet silence, both turning their focus upward.

 

“Have you heard of the college professor in Italy, Galileo Galilei?” she inquires absentmindedly.

 

“Yes, he has many a bright idea, so I’ve heard. There’s rumors that he questioned Aristotle's teachings, seems correctly I gather.” Fitz returns, his admiration of the man surfacing.

 

“Indeed, the man is truly an inspiration to test the boundaries. I must say that I agree with most of his theories. In the support of Nicolaus Copernicus, suggesting our earth revolves around the sun, is ingenious. What Aristotle claimed is the earth is a fixed point and everything else moves around it. But in the vast outer sectors of our planet, nothing can truly be a fixed point, especially if we are not the only ones existing. There is always a day somewhere and there is always a night somewhere else. If our earth is the one revolving, then we must be moving and that is why everyday changes.” Jemma prattles on. She continues to discuss scientific breakthroughs and new theories. Fitz occasionally is able to comment when she has to take a breath, but overall he just listens to the sound of her voice, enjoying every moment.

 

“The one thing that stood out to me about Aristotle was this quote ‘What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.’ It simply states the beauty of friendship and describes what makes ours so special to me.” she whispers, now looking directly at him.

 

_Friendship_

 

The word circulates in their minds and grows bigger, and more real. That one word that brings a wistful and almost longing feeling deep down inside for both.

 

Fitz turns on his side to look at her. To watch how animated she becomes when she is enthusiastic about something, the way she lights up and how her eyes sparkle and her smile widens. Everything she does produces a warm feeling that illuminates his soul. He falls for her all over again everyday but still feels the restrictions of their _friendship._ But if that is what she wanted, that is what he will give her.

  


**_For where you are, there is the world itself,_ **

**_And where you are not, there is desolation._ **

**_~William Shakespeare, King Henry VI, Part 2_ **

 

************************

 

“Be careful, Fitz.”

 

Jemma looks up at him with tears in her eyes. She doesn’t bother to wipe them away and they fall onto her dark gown, staining the silk. There are streaks down her face and her head is pounding furiously, blocking out everything but the voice of the man opposite her. She grabs the lapels of his jacket in desperation.

 

“Do you hear me! I want...I need you back here safe and sound!” she stares into his eyes, while fear overflows in hers.

 

A lone tear escapes his eye. His breathing grows labored and thick, his bottom lip trembles as he fixes his hands on her dark skirts where her waist was covered. “I'll try, Jemma.” Fitz whispers with as much courage he can muster.

 

Her hands start to shake and she softens her grip on his collar, smoothing it out. Staring at the hard, cracked soil underfoot, she takes a breath, her mind exploding from thoughts and feelings best left unsaid and goodbyes that make her want to scream. Jemma faces him once more, her brown eyes disbelieving and lost.

 

“Why must you leave? You are my best friend in all the world.” she asserts wildly, drawing the attention of other farewell givers around them in the courtyard of the Fitz household. Their goodbyes have been said and done with, producing more congratulations than tears.

 

Fitz’s eyes bore into hers with a tender passion that rarely escaped him. The intimate gaze expresses every feeling he had wanted to show and share with her but was discouraged by the thought of losing her altogether. Jemma’s entire body tingles with a familiar sensation, one that she has been contemplating for some time. Something tugs in the depths of her stomach and sends warmth throughout her body.

 

“Yes, but, you are more than that, Jemma.” Fitz professes, looking down the moment the words are said. Jemma stares at him as minutes pass between them, his words circling her relentlessly, driving her mad. Her tears subside for one brief second, letting her hear him.

 

“I could never find the courage to tell you, so please...” he raises his face once more, sparks of the gentle look swimming in his ocean eyes. “...let me show you.” At that, he slowly lets his head dip down to hers, their faces separated by Jemma’s reluctantce. His eyes graze her face, turning with every curve, mapping out where his lips would fall. She soon gives in to the moment, bridging the gap between them.

 

It begins hesitant, each side not wanting to push the other, until it grows into whirlwind of sorrow and new beginnings. Her’s travel upwards and all over, circling back around to where they started. They break apart for air, leaving them dizzy and mildly lost in each other.

 

One tear is all it takes to break the treasured enchantment. Minutes later, Fitz is mounting his horse, the others gathered around him, only two with a heavy heart. Jemma braves through, controlling her emotions even after he has been absent for an hour.

 

Everything inside of her is protesting against the charade of placidity. But she continues, even after a few days, even after he has been gone for weeks.

 

But not one single moment is truth.

 

**_My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel;_ **

**_I know not where I am, nor what I do;_ **

**_~William Shakespeare, King Henry VI, Part 1_ **

************************

 

The letter with the red clay seal. It sits innocently on her clean desk, yet it seems to fill the entire space. Next to it is a fairly large package, neatly wrapped and significantly heavy. Jemma had placed them there this morning, having all but forgotten them.

 

Finally reaching for the folded paper within a paper, she gingerly removes the real seal with the symbol of the Royal Guard, placing it on the table. She waits one more second before lifting the flap and pulling out the letter, the words written that can hold heartbreak and sorrow or greet her with laughter and airiness.

 

_17th of March, 1592_

 

_Beloved Jemma,_ it begins.

 

_I hope this letter finds you in the best of health. Do not mourn my departure so deeply, for I wish you to have a merry life. The front lines are as beastly as we assumed, perhaps even worse. I have seen battle, many times now and it is becoming rather gory. I shall spare you the meager details, or any details, for the bloodshed is too much for even the most bold man to see without becoming faint. So many have died, Jemma. Every time it seems as though I have gained a companion, they are lost to the battlefield. There is one, however, who I trust and has not been taken from me. His name is Alphonso MacKenzie. He is no violent fellow and used to work as a palace engineer. It is decidedly amusing if you see his stature and large build. To imagine that he never fought before, while myself, an arguably normal set man was trained my entire life to do just that. I must admit, I am frightened and I wish that I could be back home. As Socrates said ‘_ _Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.’ For war is something that should never be indulged. But, I digress, if you look in the package, you shall find your tardy St. Valentine's gift. I had been toying with the design since I heard of the book of_ Natural Magick by Giambattista della Porta. _It describes how using different lenses combined, one can magnify various sights! It is truly spectacular and I strongly advise you to read it. But, for now, my gift should make the viewing of stars a bit easier. And I do have a small poem that I wrote for your gift as well. Speaking of poetry, you must have heard of the rising writer, William Shakespeare. Now, I have read his published works in my spare time and I am no Shakespeare. You should read his pieces, for a brilliant author, he is. But, the time has come for my ballad, To be Called Lovely._

 

_To be Called Lovely, one must try their hardest to please the outside world. One must paste a constant smile to entertain the globe. One is given no mercy nor is one given love. One must walk on glass to be called lovely._

 

_To be Called Lovely, one must accept every command to please people. One must bow to every whim and fancy of their peers. One is given no freedom nor is one given self-respect, something they deserve no matter what position they are in. One must act as if they are a marionette to be called lovely._

 

_To be Called Lovely, thou must take charge of thine life and be bold. Thou must be loved and doted upon, given freedom and respect in every situation. Thou shalt reach and grasp thine self  and take thine own path. Thou must show mercy when needed but justice elsewhere. Thou must embrace thine personality to be called lovely._

 

_Leo Fitz._

 

Jemma sighs and presses her hand to the coarse paper. “Thank you, Fitz.” He has no idea what it means to her. He captured her everyday life perfectly in a simple poem.

 

She lays the letter on a chair to her right before reaching over to the package to find his gift. She places it in her lap, a weight instantly laid on her. Pulling off the outer paper and opening the box, she reaches inside, her hand coming in contact with a cold, metal rod of sorts. Her curiosity growing, Jemma brings out the contraption and turns it over in her hands. It is one long rod that slowly increases in size from the bottom to the top, giving it the shape of a thin cone. At the smaller end, it appears to be an eyepiece and at the other, a thick ring around an objective lens. It is certainly heavy and a bit on the bulky side, but Jemma is overwhelmed by the apparent time and effort this must have taken. Fitz had put this contraption together just so she could be happy. Her heart swells and she touches the mechanism gently, feeling Fitz’s presence with it.

 

She hears footsteps coming down the hall and the sound of swishing skirts. She quickly clears up the room, not bothering to put away the apparatus.

 

“Jemma! I have unfortunate news.” a shrill, female voice rings out, its footsteps coming closer. Her mother soon enters the room, a solemn expression on her powder-caked face.  

 

“What is it, mother?” she asks slowly, her hands grasp the arms of her chair.

 

Constance Simmons, although now an older woman, still stirs up an uncomfortable presence about her. Jemma’s stomach churns, she hadn’t addressed her mother upfront in while and her company brings forth an unsettling feeling.

 

“Leo’s camp has been captured, no one is sure who is alive, but I have chosen not to entertain the worst.” Her mother sniffs and dabs her eyes with a handkerchief.

 

Everything around Jemma slows. Her heart drops to her stomach and it beats uncontrollably. A thick lump forms in her throat as she struggles to find air. This isn’t happening. He said he'd be careful, he is supposed to come back. Jemma feels tears rising to escape her tightly shut eyes.

 

“The news just arrived this morning. I'm sorry Jemma.” Constance crosses the room to where her weeping daughter sits. Jemma’s face is blotchy and red mess mixed with grief and anguish. She reaches for her mother, grasping her tight and sobbing into her shoulder.

 

“Why? Why him?” she blubbers, barely breathing.

 

“I know, dear. It is nothing less than a tragedy, but we must think positively. He may not be dead. Our troops may be planning a rescue, right as we speak.” Constance strokes Jemma's hair and gives her an idea.

 

A rescue.

 

**_True nobility is exempt from fear:—_ **

**_More can I bear, than you dare execute_ **

**_~William Shakespeare, King Henry VI, Part 2_ **

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Part 2

 

 

“You want to become a soldier?” Bobbi asks, her voice tinged with apprehension. 

 

“Only to ensure the safe return of Fitz...” Jemma falters, slowly turning away from Lance and Bobbi’s pitying stares, busying herself by looking around the room and acting as if they are not studying her every movement. She notices the simple, but sophisticated atmosphere of the home, from the furniture to the color scheme. There are no intricate patterns or rich hues clouding the atmosphere and Jemma finds this calming. “I thought, since you were able to disguise yourself as one for a few months, you would help me.”

 

Bobbi purses her lips and Lance decides to speak up. “Sounds like a perfectly sound plan. Disguising yourself as a man just to bring back one who chose to leave. Nothing wrong with that.” his sarcastic edge makes Jemma wince and put her head in her hands, letting out a heart wrenching sob. 

 

“I know, I-I just wanted him back so badly. He could be dead, I must be a fool to even entertain the idea of his life being spared.” Her almost complete brokenness softens the pair and in spite of Lance’s obvious objection, Bobbi is set to help her.

 

“I'm positive there is something we can do to aid you.” she says kindly. “First, I suggest to change your appearance to that of a man, for you do have strong womanly features.” she gestured up and down to Jemma’s full set body. “I have the perfect solution.”

 

**_You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind next to honor._ **

**_~ Aristotle_ **

 

************************

 

Jemma dismounts the horse awkwardly, due to her inexperience with her new attire, which involves extraordinarily heavy armor.   

 

“Alright, Barbara, I can only trust your experience.” she mutters while tying the reins to a nearby pole. A dry wind blows from behind her and she subconsciously swipes her hair out of her face but her hand is cut off short. Jemma recollects the painful haircut she had endured to resemble the opposite sex and cringes as she once again touches her now chin-length hair. 

 

Securing her armor and double-checking her horse, she strides awkwardly but confidently through the maze of tents to find her commanding officer. Holding the slip of paper with her training letter tightly, she scans the tents and the men around them, searching for a friendly face. All around her is chaos. Many are setting up their tents and sharpening weapons, some practicing with them. A few are eating heavy meats and gulping down water, almost completely wasting their provisions. Jemma holds hers a bit tighter to shield it from the eyes of hungry soldiers. 

 

Since she is so preoccupied with studying the other men, watching to find patterns and similarities that she can copy, Jemma knocks over an unsuspecting man who then drops a dagger that grazes his own foot. 

 

“Beg your pardon!” Jemma squeaks before remembering the voice training Bobbi had provided her, lowering it and reaching over to help the hopping man. “Excuse me, let me aid you.”

 

The man sits down on a nearby chair, breathing heavily and growing too tired to argue Jemma taking his foot and examining it. She carefully takes the shoe off and sees a slight gash along his big toe. Reaching inside one of her bags, she brings out a bandage and some whiskey she had taken...for medical purposes, mostly. Jemma briskly pours the whiskey on his wound, receiving a painful cry from the owner of the toe, and wraps the foot promptly. 

 

“There you are. Shall be perfectly admissible in a week or so. Make sure it does not get infected, in other words, stay sanitary.” she smiles lightly and extends her hand politely. “My name is...um…”

 

“Are you a physician?” the man groans, holding his aching toe with a pained expression. 

 

“Uh...Yes?” she answers hesitantly. It isn’t a complete lie, she has studied in the field and would have already been in college if it wasn’t for women oppression. Jemma curls and uncurls her fists into tight balls, waiting for his response. 

 

“Well, thank you. My name is  Joey Gutierrez , and you are?” he inquires genuinely, despite the growing ache in his foot.

 

“I am, Jem-Jerome. My name is Jerome.” she recovers quickly, kicking her feet in the grass and holding her hands behind her back. 

 

“Pleasure to be acquainted.” he begins and is about to proceed when a loud trumpet sounds throughout the camp. Their attention is pulled in that direction and Jemma walks toward the noise.

 

Upon arriving, she sees men start to line up and she soon follows in suit, although still confused about the reason. Then, a wave of shock hits her and she momentarily staggers back, for what she sees, is the greatest surprise of all.

 

Melinda May, in full uniform, is marching along the line, inspecting each soldier with a glare that gives them a newfound respect and fear of their commanding officer. As she makes her way down the array of men, one decides to step out of line and gives May a flirtatious smile before tripping the woman. Jemma gasps as he and a few around him laugh heartily. May stands up and dusts off her green jacket, before fixing a stone, cold glower that makes Jemma shiver. The man stands unfazed. 

 

“Having trouble there, spinster.” he taunts, at this point, his friends have ceased in their laughing, afraid of what she might do to them.

 

“One of your fellow men has chosen to disrespect their commanding officer. This lewdness will not be taken lightly, let him be an example to everyone.” May pronounces. She then punches him hard in the face before kneeing him in the stomach, which earns a cheer from her army, and flips him over onto his back on the cracked dirt. Walking away, she continues her inspection and the entirety of men are silent.

 

When she arrives where Jemma is standing, May does a double-take and her gaze lingers on her. Jemma gulps nervously, it is almost as if May could see right through her charade. 

 

“Come forward, soldier.” May shouts authoritatively. Jemma awkwardly comes forward, turning her shoulders and arms in to make herself as small and insignificant as possible. Her throat goes dry and May gives her a once over.

 

“State your name.” 

 

“Jerome, um, sir, sorry, ma’am.” Jemma mumbles. May squints at her pathetic, cowering form before reluctantly moving forward in her inspection. 

 

“I am your general and I will not tolerate imprudence. I outrank everyone of you and have acquired a multitude of experience that none of you will ever receive in your lifetime. But training is a necessity in this line of work, especially since none of you possess any background.” she walks front and center. Observing every volunteer, May almost feels a some kind of pity for these souls who would be risking life and limb for a chance of fame and honor. It almost broke her heart that they do not know even a taste of the horror of war. The imbrued sights that almost feels as if they are a picture of pure, unadulterated death and blood. She shakes her head of the imagery and moves forward in her speech.

 

“I and a few select officers shall be developing your skills for the next two weeks. Do not question, only obey. You shall address me as General May, nothing less.” She directs a fixed stare to Jemma, recalling her slip up. “First, we must test each of your diverse finesse with generic exercises.” 

 

Swords are now passed around and Jemma weighs the heavy object in her hands, contemplating what to do with it. She studies the metal, briefly admiring the craftsmanship on the blade, her eyes trailing onto the hilt and the decorative patterns adorning it. However elegant it appears, the longsword, is fairly simple compared to the swords collected by the royal family. This one, has a single red stone on the pommel that shows its slight value. 

 

“Let us begin.” 

 

**_When a world of men_ **

**_Could not prevail with all their oratory,_ **

**_Yet hath a woman's kindness overruled._ **

**_~_ ** **_William Shakespeare_ ** **_,_ ** **_Henry VI, Part 1_ **

 

************************

 

“Archer.”

 

Joey stretches out the bowstring of the longbow, watching it bounce back into position. Even after another difficult day of training with the same bow for weeks, he never ceases to be mesmerized by the rush of shooting an arrow. Pinpointing the target and focusing in on it, letting go of the shaft to feel the fletching slide through his fingers, and watching as the tip met its mark. He has, however, been practicing only on inanimate objects and is unsure about where he stands concerning using the bow to take lives. “And you?” 

 

“Swordsman and military physician.” Jemma replies. The words fit nicely in her mouth, natural and used. She holds the blade in her hands, still in awe of what she is capable of doing with it. Her hands gained numerous calluses with her training and is satisfied with the role she was given, especially since she is able to pursue the dream she has had for her entire lifetime. 

 

Joey leans against a pole in the tent that they share with many other of their teammates. Everyone is relieved that training is over and done with, that they can finally move forward as experienced soldiers. Jemma almost felt happy, but the growing idea of Fitz captured and possibly

dead festers deep in her gut, creating a severe ache that relentlessly pains her.

 

She lays back on the cot she is sitting on as Joey continues to speak. Keeping up the charade had been fairly easy, she just deeps her voice when speaking and baths secretly. There was one person who had eventually found out, but it was inevitable. General May is a perceptive woman and after an injury that Jemma acquired after a long day of training, her secret was revealed. May, also her former tutor, was the one that found out but she also is an understanding woman who accepts Jemma and her motives and helps her become even more convincing in her role. With her guidance, Jemma has blossomed into a skilled swordsman and quick-paced physician, prepared to rescue her best friend, or whatever he is at this point. Jemma hasn’t had too much time to ponder what he said to her the morning he left. Between drills and running through the rescue plan the base formulated a thousand times, she tries to keep the idea clear from her thoughts. But it is always nagging at her, growing consistently, becoming more of a reality that a memory. Has she always felt this way about Fitz? After years of friendship, how did it come to these confusing feelings? After contemplating every possibility, a mild headache grows and Jemma decides to actually take notice of what her friend is saying.

 

“I am truly frightened to go and rescue the men captured two weeks ago, they must be dead by now!” Joey finishes the thought he is voicing. He is sitting now, still against the support beam, picking at the few blades of grass underfoot. Jemma flinches at the last few words, trying to brush them off and ignore their truth, but what he said lightly she took heavily. She hid her hurt, knowing half of the time, Joey hardly processed what came out of his mouth. The two have become close and Jemma learned that he is a very confused but determined man with a huge heart and passion for life. She respects him and his views, many a time she considers telling him the truth but it is too risky. They sit in silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts, until the sound of disorganized marching can be heard.

 

Jemma stands and walks over to the mouth of the tent, looking out curiously. She sees men emptying the campsite and packing the supplies onto carts. May passes by and Jemma stops her to question the happenings. 

 

“We finally located the whereabouts of the camp that has our imprisoned men. Scouts were sent and saw almost every man accounted for.” she replies gently, putting one hand on her pupil’s shoulder. She witnessed the deep-rooted bond that grew between Jemma and Fitz when they were children and is equally eager to bring him back. “He is alive.”

 

Jemma’s eyes brim with tears she has been holding since the news of his capture was revealed. She pulls May into a hug, burying her face in her shoulder, sobbing heavily. She will see him again. Nothing else matters.

 

_ I am going to get him back.  _

 

**_To be is to do._ **

**_~Socrates_ **

 

************************

 

Fitz spits out blood and looks up at his tormentor, Lieutenant Colonel Ward, selfish man with no moral codes nor any real value of life. He is an infamous mercenary that is feared by all who have the displeasure of coming in contact with his wretched form. He fights more for quenching his bloodthirst than the money. He delights in the pain of others, almost thrives on it. Ward was once a man, but something unearthly, inhuman almost, took over his being. The mention of his name sends a freezing shiver down one’s spine. More monster than man, horror than human. 

 

The demon now stares Fitz directly in the eyes with a sinister grin dancing across his features. Fitz returns the look with one equally as fierce, however terrified he feels inside. Blood dripping down his face from his battered forehead, his hands bound along with his other men around him. They are inside a dark tent, with no sense of time or place.

 

“You shall tell me soon, Captain Fitz, or so I’ve heard you been called.” Ward hisses, he slaps him once more, still getting no response from Fitz. “You look like nothing but a mere cadet, but appearances are deceitful, for you have shown more courage and loyalty than your superiors. Yet,” he runs the edge of a dagger’s blade along Fitz’s cheek, drawing blood in the process. “there is always something that can make a man  _ crack. _ ” He signals to one of his soldiers, and they bring forth a familiar face, also bound.

 

“Mack.” Fitz breathes out, his friend is there, jaw set forward but eyes filled with fear. 

 

“So you do recognize him. Now,” He raises the dagger to Mack’s throat. “are you willing to let him die? For loyalty?” 

 

Mack looks directly at Fitz, bracing himself. “Let me die, Turbo. I am not worth the lives of thousands of men.” 

 

“If you just tell me the last piece of information that we need, and I’ll let him go. I will let everyone of your men go, except you. But that is to be expected.” Ward continues to taunt him, dragging the knife lightly against Mack’s neck. 

 

Fitz watches wide eyed, and terrified. “Wait!” he shouts, struggling against his binds. “I will tell you everything. You must let them all go free first.”

 

Ward’s face is splits into a wicked grin and he lowers the blade, motioning for his men to release them all. “So, please share the required intelligence.”

 

At that moment, a man bursts through the flaps of the tent, a crazed look in his eyes. “We are under attack!”

 

Ward lets out a low growl and stands reluctantly, following the soldier out into the base of the camp which has been turned to a full-scale battlefield. There are horses run rampage, dead men strewn across the ground, the scent of thick blood cloaked over the combat arena. He pulls out his sword and joins the fray, taking out many as he moves forward.

 

Meanwhile, a dark figure and a small team creep toward the tent Ward just exited.  They open the flap, letting themselves inside. The bound men inside look up to see their rescuers. The leader removes her helmet to reveal her identity.

 

“Jemma!” Fitz shouts, it takes him a moment to recognize her with the haircut and clothing but he has known her for so . He laughs from relief and mild hysteria. “How did you...how are you…” he stutters, the wind knocked out of him from complete shock. 

 

Jemma kneels down and loosens his binds, motioning for her men to do the same for the others. She strokes his face gently and his blood stains her hand. “What have they done to you?” 

 

He sits up, rubbing his now rubbed raw wrists, relieved that he is finally free from the ropes that had been holding him for weeks. “I’ll survive, but I have so many questions-”

 

“That will be answered soon, my love. I promise.” she says sweetly, beginning to dress and wrap his wounds.

 

“‘My love’? Care to explain?’ he breathes, a bit flustered but mostly elated by her tenderness. 

 

“All in due time. For now, we must join the battle outside.” After finishing her ties on the bandages, she helps him up and unveils her sword. The others pass around their confiscated weapons. He nods eagerly before pulling her into a warm embrace. 

 

“I’ve missed you terribly.” he whispers. She holds him back equally as tight. 

 

“We need to speak about what you said to me when you left.” Jemma states.

 

He stiffens but doesn’t break the embrace. “There is nothing to discuss.” he laughs bitterly.

 

“Maybe there is.” she returns, pulling up from the hug and pressing her lips against his passionately. He happily returns the gesture grasping onto her hands with his. They know they may not survive, for this is war afterall. But each other is all they can ask for at the moment. They stay that way for a bit, their lips moving in sync until she feels one of her men tap her on the shoulder. 

 

“I hate to interrupt, but we should be moving.” he says awkwardly, clearing his throat as well.

 

Jemma reluctantly lets go of Fitz who is still completely bewildered by the entire scene. She straightens her jacket, having had exchanged her armor for a lighter mesh to fit underneath her clothing. “Shall we?” She motions to the mouth of the tent and they all walk through. 

 

A now freed Mack walks beside Fitz, resting his large hand on Fitz’s shoulder. “I’m glad you both finally were able to work things out.” 

 

Fitz nods wordlessly at his friend. They get onto the battlefield, witnessing the gory horror. The smell of blood is so thick in the air that one they can almost taste it. As they walk further, they can feel it seeping through their shoes as it pools on the ground. The rising sun warms them but emphasizes the red goo further. Fitz swallows a lump rising in his throat. So many lost lives, so many dead, so many families that will only have the memory of their sons, fathers, and brothers left to love. 

 

Suddenly, a large company invades on their right and they are pulled into the brawl. Jemma moves closer to Fitz, watching him carefully to ensure he won’t give out from his injuries. An enemy soldier comes to her left, she swiftly dives the sword into his chest and removing it.

Another jumps up, axe in hand, but she detaches the arm from his body, leaving him to fall to the ground in agony. 

 

Fitz watches the display in shock and mild nausea. He touches his arm, feeling an ache in his arm for the one who lost his own. He snaps out of the lackadaisical trance and pulls out his matchlock from its holster. He moves to slightly higher ground and landscapes the area, shooting anyone who has enemy colors. He backs up slowly and bumps into an archer who lets go of an arrow abruptly. The archer points another at Fitz and he brings his gun in the same position. They stay in a stalemate for a brief moment before they each notice each other’s colors and lower their weapons. 

 

The archer raises his hand as a friendly gesture. “Joey.” he offers.

 

Fitz takes the hand and smiles. “Fitz. Glad to find someone I do not have to kill.” he jokes and Joey chuckles as well. 

 

“Fitz!” Jemma calls as she runs up the hill. By now she has lost her deep voice and her thick clothes have been slashed to reveal the mesh underneath that outlines her lady features. 

 

“Jerome?” Joey asks, his brow knits together in confusion. He struggles to find words but they continue to escape him. He holds up a shaky hand and puts some distance between them. 

 

“Jemma? You know him?” Fitz inquires, looking back and forth between the two. 

 

Jemma winces and swallows lightly, her cheeks flushing from the cold and embarrassment. 

“Joey, Fitz. I can explain. Please,” She hears a grunt behind her and turns to see a fallen attacker with an arrow through his chest. “not now.” and gestures to the now dead man.

 

Joey nods and moves forward. But, even against his conscience, Fitz grabs Jemma’s arm and searches her face for answers. “Jem-Jemma, is that how you got into the army? Dressing as a man? That’s...” Jemma flinches, waiting for the admonishing. “...brilliant! I’m not saying that I want you here where you can be harmed but you truly deserve the respect of every man in the Kingdom.” he praises. 

 

She beams at him, her heart swelling with joy and pride. He let go and they moved forward, deeper into the battle. 

 

“Jerome!” another female voice shouts. Jemma turns to see May moving toward her speedily. 

 

“No need for the nome de plume, General May. My secret has been uncovered.” Jemma deadpans. May nods at her.

 

“Miss May?” Fitz interjects in disbelief. “I’ve seen it all! So the rumors are true!” He throws up his hands and laughs hysterically. “This has been the most perplexing yet eventful day of my life.” he howls.

 

“Alright, moving forward.” Jemma asserts strongly, pointing her sword away from both of them and leading the way. May raises an eyebrow but follows shortly. Fitz scoffs and stares for a minute before emulating them both, as does Joey. 

 

The flags of their country are stained red and fallen to the ground. Their allies have fallen and many have run. They are almost defeated. But there comes a glimmer of hope as Jemma, May, Fitz, and Joey come up onto the peak. Fitz and May gather as many of the survivors as they can and they form a line of defense. The enemy comes up as well, they are too on their last few stragglers but with just enough manpower to call it winning. 

 

Face-to-face, the two armies come to a halt. 

 

“Ready to attack! On your commands Captain Fitz and General May.” someone clamors. 

 

Jemma shoots Fitz a look and mouths ‘Captain?’ He gives her a goofy smile and a shrug. 

 

“On my mark.” May hollers. She lifts her hand and they advance. Joey and May move for the high ground while Jemma and Fitz remain in the heart of the battle.

 

Back-to-back they stay, their weapons drawn and ready. 

 

“I have a theory.” Jemma says, taking out a few in one forward thrust of her blade. Her hair has become drenched in sweat and she slicks it back.

 

“Care to share?” Fitz replies, aiming for and shooting a couple to their left. His curls have frizzed uncontrollably and he doesn’t bother to touch them in their delicate state.

 

“An object in motion remains in motion, unless stilled by another force.” she coins, spinning slightly to unarm an assailant coming on their left. She breathes heavily, waiting for his response.

 

“If we survive this,” he is interrupted by an arrow flitting past his ear and landing inside another’s forehead. He gags slightly but returns to their conversation. “you should test that theory.”

 

“But we can, right here.” she taunts, pressing her back closer to his.

 

“Oh?” Fitz questions, too preoccupied to probe any further. 

 

“Yes. You simply turn around and push me forward.” Jemma sets forth. She takes one on his right and he one on his left. They work like a well-oiled machine, thinking and moving as one.

 

“Doesn’t sound particularly ingenious, but I trust you,  _ My love. _ ” he jokes with the pet name she used earlier. He turns as she asked and propels her forward in one swift push.

 

She has extended her sword and using his push, she runs toward a mass of aggressors, injuring 12 and removing 3. Jemma slows down and comes to a stand still. She waves at Fitz and he shakes his head with a smile. 

 

“I was the object, you were the catalyst, and they,” she shouts and motions to the bodies strewn on the ground, but breathes heavily, still not comfortable with the damage she learned to inflict. “Were the inhibitors.”

 

Coming from behind Fitz, Jemma can see a figure with murder in his eyes and a sword in hand. He brings it back, as if nocking an arrow, and launches it forward, straight toward Fitz’s heart.

 

Something, however, hits the assaulter's hand and his sword is pointed lower, but does not stop. For an object in motion, stays in motion.

 

Jemma cries out to warn Fitz, but the deed is done. Fitz’s body jolts in anguish and falls forward, into the dirt. She runs full speed but he never appears to get any closer. The attacker comes forward, blocking her from Fitz. In that moment, time slows and rage consumes Jemma’s form. 

She kicks him down and slices the flesh on his arm with the tip of her sword, seeing his blood. The blood of the man who deserved her revenge. Standing over him now, she raises her sword, ready to plunge it into his heart.

 

“Wait!” he pleads, holding up his hands to shield himself. Jemma hesitates, her deep compassion preventing her from killing him. “Please, it is not my fault! I do not wish to be this way. I was forced by my employer, Gideon Malick. But I wish to repent, spare me!” 

 

She glowers at his writhing form below her and almost feels an ounce of pity and despair for this broken man. “Leave and  _ never _ return to this realm.” she hisses, letting him escape.

 

After making sure he has evacuated the area entirely, Jemma runs to her dying friend, turning him front side up. She wipes away the dirt from his face and pulls out the sword from his back, earning a tormented cry from him. Hot tears fall from her eyes as she stares into his fading ones. She rips a piece of cloth from her shirt to place on his wound, trying in vain to stop the blood flow. 

 

“Help! Somebody help him!” she calls, her voice giving out to deep sobs rising up from her chest. 

 

“Jemma.” he whispers and brings his hand to caress her cheek. “Why are you here?”

 

“I-I’m here to bring you home, Fitz.” she wails, grasping his hand as if it were his only lifeline.

 

“You could be killed, and I’m not strong enough to live in world that doesn’t have you in it.” he rants, his face constricting and his features distorting from the obvious misery he is in. Suddenly, his face lights up as he looks toward the heavens. “The stars, Jemma. Look at the stars when I’m gone.” 

 

Jemma glances up and sees a multitude of glorious lights across the sky, but she does not give them a second thought. The stars are not worth watching without him. “I will not! You have to live, Fitz, or else I promise you, I will never admire another star again!”

 

His hand shakes violently as he lowers it from her cheek. 

 

Jemma lets out heart-wrenching cry and tries to soothe him. She grows angry with her complete inability to help him, for her grief has weighed her down and every logical thought exits her mind. “Fitz, please. Come back to me.”

 

Darkness closes in on him just as he feels a dull sensation of being lifted into the air. 

 

**_The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our separate ways, I to die, and you to live. Which of these two is better only God knows._ **

**_~ Socrates_ **

 

************************

 

_ Come back to me. _

 

Fitz sits up abruptly, immediately suffering a deep, pronounced ache in his abdomen and he cries out in pain. He feels hands push him back onto the plush, flat surface he was previously unconscious on. The material is inviting and warm, he almost falls back asleep. But Fitz hears a dull mumble coming from the attendants standing in the center of the enormous room. He can, however, only see a blurry representation of the persons and the sight strains his eyes and gives him a minor headache. 

 

Fitz then, through an unhealthy amount of willpower, decides to close his eyes and attempt to decipher the fuzzy words they are speaking. The conversation comes in bits and pieces, sometimes loudly, other times quietly. Occasionally, the sounds will cease entirely, leaving an empty silence. The pieces are mostly about his health and the apparent stitches they gave him. The attendants talk of the war and mention a familiar name that makes him want to get out of bed once more and sprint to her, or try at the least.

 

He stays, listening, for what seems like hours. He is never truly asleep, simply in a bored state of mind, unable to do anything else. Fitz can hear visitors leave gifts and such by his bedside, soon memorizing each of their steps. He never once hears the ever so familiar step of that special name. 

 

Fitz does get days of time to reflect on the battle, the battle that left him in this useless, yet calm, state. He remembers everything, the rescue, the kiss, the confession. Not one detail escapes his memory and it almost comes across as a burden, for he also can recall the pain. The pain of being stabbed with the sword replays in his mind and he can feel it every time. As often as he tries to drown out his mind with other thoughts, the agony of reliving it returns, unabated. Until one day, he hears a beautiful voice and two soft hands touch his chest. 

 

“Fitz...Leo.” The voice takes a long breath. “I know you’re still here, with me. If you could wake up, you would make me the happiest woman alive. Please.” The voice stops, a sob catches in her throat. 

 

He hears her cry and wants to tell her he is alright, to hold her in comfort. But his limbs stiffen and his eyes remain glued shut. Fitz tries to speak but the words sit, useless, on his tongue. Almost defeated entirely, he suddenly senses an odd sort of strength flow through him. His eyes flutter open and he is instantly greeted by a light glow, which soon focuses and he can see a beige slab of housing. Still looking up, he realizes it was not as bright as he had originally thought and his eyes grow accustomed to the dimness. After waiting a few more moments to gather his strength, Fitz opens his mouth and lets out a single word.

 

“Jemma?” 

 

She rises from the chair unexpectedly, knocking over a an expensive vase full of begonias from a family member next to her. But Jemma directs her unwavering attention to the man in front of her. Rushing over to his bedside, she takes his hand in hers, bringing it to her face. Tears wet his hand but she doesn’t let go, soaking in his presence instead. She tries to speak, to say anything, but it comes out as incoherent blubbering and she waits until she is relatively calm. 

 

“I thought, I hadn’t wanted to, but I thought you were…” Jemma leaves the words unsaid, where they cannot harm her. 

 

“How long?” he asks, almost afraid of what she will say.

 

She gives him a watery smile and squeezes his hand. “Nine of the longest days of my life.” she manages to whisper, sorrow lacing her lovely face, embedded in her brown eyes.

 

Fitz’s eyes roam her form, taking in every detail, from her clearly mangled hair, to her sleep-deprived face and bloodshot eyes, to the simple blue dress that had no exquisite characteristics, yet it complements her more so than any other he has seen on her. His eyes linger for a brief moment before they shift to see a lived in mess of handkerchiefs, a bit of food, and a telescope. Right at the center of the disarray, is an uncomfortable, auburn armchair.

 

“You’ve been…” he utters, pointing to the debris clustered around the elbow chair. 

 

She turns where his hand is directing her to and quickly stands, walking to the jumble and attempting to clear it up at the best of her possibilities. “Yes, for nine days straight. AS soon as they finished the surgery and moved you here, I stayed. I tried not to leave at all, but when I did, it was when people were present. Just so you would never become lonely.” Jemma gathers together the handkerchiefs and places them on another side table in the dark room.

 

“Could you-” 

 

“Open the curtains? Certainly, it was growing too dark for my liking.” she finishes for him, noting how extreme his fatigue is that he cannot finish a sentence and making sure to not task him.

 

A light floods the room, Fitz blinks twice and Jemma can’t help but notice how blue his eyes are reflected of the natural light. She shakes the thought from her head and continues to clear up the now visible room.

 

Fitz looks around, recognizing the sketches covering every inch of the walls. He manages to sit up, though it is a slow and agonizing process that causes his fingers to twitch and he grunts softly. From the improved perspective, he can see the work table in the back corner of the room, covered in handmade mechanisms and stray pieces of metal. He smiles, relieved to be back in the comforts of his own room after two months. Turning back to Jemma, Fitz notices the telescope once more.

 

“You kept it.” he says, more to himself than to her.

 

She lifts one eyebrow and twists her lips in confusion before reaching for the contraption. She holds it in her hands and smiles down at it, blushing furiously. “Yes, I kept it here when I left for the war. It means so much to me, that you made this. I haven’t gotten to use it, but I wanted us to enjoy it, together.” she acclaims gingerly, running her finger along the side of the smooth metal, her eyes full of wonder.

 

Fitz swallows slowly, watching as the sunlight bounces on her wavy hair and reflects off her warm eyes. He inhales deeply, clearing his head and letting it be filled with an entire new set of issues, all from the words he is unable to keep in a second longer.

 

“Will you marry me?” 

 

Jemma’s head snaps up in surprise, her mouth opens and closes, yet not a sound exits. Her eyes fill with tears and she snaps out of the brief moment of silence. “Fitz,” she breathes, placing the telescope on the armchair and kneeling by his bedside.

 

He cringes, waiting for the rejection that will rip him to pieces. But instead, she places a sweet kiss on his lips, taking all the time in the world.

 

“Nothing in this universe could make me happier.” she professes as soon as she breaks away. Fitz beams at her and his eyes fall back onto her pink lips before he recaptures them with his.

He cups her face with his hand and brings Jemma closer. She leans in slowly, still mindful of his injury. One long, passionate kiss, two gentle and tender kisses. They become lost in each other as joy engulfs them. Jemma pulls out first, keeping her proximity as she places her forehead on his, her eyes shining like stars. He opens his eyes and looks at her in pure love as every problem exits their mind. They smile simultaneously, both giddy and a bit shy.  

 

And every star in the universe looks down at them, each one shining brighter, knowing they are meant to be. For this love is  _ Written in the Stars _ .

 

**_True wisdom comes to each of us when we realize how little we understand about life, ourselves, and the world around us._ **

**_~ Socrates_ **

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was Newton's First Law that Jemma paraphrased. I would have written it in as a quote but Newton was not alive during this time period.


End file.
